


Circle

by jane_with_a_j



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (not particularly graphic but still), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: Aziraphale is about to walk into a trap, and there's nothing Crowley can do about it.





	Circle

**Author's Note:**

> For Ineffable Husbands Week, Day 5: Fight

It had started out as such a nice day.

An early-morning sunbeam was shining through the bookshop window and onto the sofa where Crowley had dozed off after polishing off several very good bottles of red the night before. Under different circumstances, the sunlight in his eyes might have made for an unpleasant awakening, but today, it felt warm and comfortable and perfect for basking.

Of course, that warm, pleasant feeling might also have something to do with the angel who was sharing the sofa, reading a paperback novel and idly stroking Crowley's hair with his free hand.

“Mm,” mumbled Crowley, wriggling slightly, trying to burrow deeper into the angel's side.

“Are you awake, my dear?” asked Aziraphale.

“Mmph. No. Mmsleeping.”

“As you say,” said Aziraphale. Then, “I do need to get up, though.”

“Nuh,” said Crowley. “Should sleep. S'nice.”

“I'm sure it is, dearest,” said Aziraphale. “But I have an appointment this morning, remember?”

Crowley remembered dimly. It was the second Friday of the month. On the second Friday of the month, Aziraphale had a standing appointment with his barber, first thing in the morning. On the way out, he stopped at the café across the street and picked up a tray of coffees, teas, and pastries, which he distributed to anyone he passed along the way who looked like they might be in need – saving a few choice sweets for himself, of course. There were always people in need on the streets of Soho, and although it was hardly an angelic miracle, Aziraphale firmly believed that a hot drink and a little nibble were good for both body and soul. He'd been doing it long enough that a few of the locals had developed a habit of waiting for him, hoping to get first choice of the baked goods.

“I s'pose it would be selfish of me to ask you to stay?” Crowley mumbled.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “you are still, technically, a demon, so you're allowed to be selfish.”

“Mm, s'true.”

“On the other hand,” said Aziraphale, “it would probably also be selfish of _me_ to stay. I promised Gerald and Vincent I'd pick up some raspberry scones. They don't do those every day, you know. They tend to sell out quickly.”

Crowley opened one eye, then the other. He shifted his position so that he could look up at Aziraphale, squinting a bit in the sunlight. “You sure you don't just want to make sure to get one for yourself?” he asked.

Aziraphale ruffled his hair. “Of course I do,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “They're delicious. I'll save one for you if you like.”

“Mmph,” said Crowley, “that's okay. Maybe pick me up a coffee on the way back, though?”

“Double espresso with a bit of sugar?”

“Perfect.” Crowley shut his eyes and returned to blissful basking.

“Crowley, dear,” said Aziraphale.

“What?”

“I actually do need you to let me up.”

“Grmph. Fine.”

Even without Aziraphale there, the sofa was still extraordinarily comfortable. Yes, it was definitely going to be a nice day.

\--

Eventually, the earth turned, the sun shifted, and the warm sunbeam moved away from the sofa. After a while, Crowley decided it was time to wake up for real. He stretched, rubbed his face, and levered himself up into a sitting position. He ran a hand through his hair, miracling it into shape just the way he liked it. When he stood up, his clothes were neat and unwrinkled, despite having been slept in. He'd set his sunglasses down somewhere last night. Where were they?

He was still looking when his phone buzzed. A text message from the garden centre across town. He'd placed a special order the week before, and it had come in ahead of schedule. He checked his watch. Plenty of time to go and pick it up, and be back before Aziraphale returned. He grinned. This really was shaping up to be a good day. And, look, here were his sunglasses, right where he had left them on top of a stack of ... were those vintage cookbooks? Never knew what you were going to find in here.

\--

He was halfway across town, doing ninety-five on the city streets, when he felt it. A tug that started at the base of his spine, pulling at every nerve in his body.

“Fuck,” he said. Some idiot was attempting a Summoning. Ignore it, he told himself. There hadn't been a proper cult with control enough to force him to respond to a Summoning in centuries. He'd responded to a few in the late 80s, but that had just been for a lark.

The tug wasn't going away, though. It was getting stronger. “Bugger off,” he muttered, “I'm busy.” Then, “Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckohfuuuuuuuck....”

He managed to pull the Bentley over to the side of the road before the Summoning overcame him and he was sucked through to somewhere else.

\--

If you're a demon, there are advantages to responding willingly to a Summoning. For one, you get to maintain some control over how you make your appearance. Materializing in a cloud of black fog is always a winner, or from a pillar of flame, or a flurry of black feathers. Being forced through unwillingly, though, tends to lead to a rather undignified entrance, often headfirst. And you generally don't get to bring your clothes through with you. And that is how Crowley came to find himself stark naked, hair in disarray, facedown on the floor in ... Aziraphale's bookshop?

That was unexpected.

He pushed himself up onto his knees and looked around. The Circle on the floor was expertly done, in salt and chalk and, yes, that was definitely blood. The sigils were old, drawn out in a style he hadn't seen in thousands of years. This kind of Circle took time and skill to prepare, and he had only been gone, what, half an hour? There were no dark-robed cultists gathered around the Circle, no powerful, wealthy old men looking to increase said power and wealth, not even a gaggle of overly-dramatic teenagers. As far as Crowley could see, there was just one man in the room. One tired, dirty, sickly old man, sitting on the floor near Aziraphale's desk, eyes glazed, muttering to himself. He looked familiar, but Crowley couldn't place him.

“Well done,” said a voice from somewhere behind him. Crowley's heart dropped. He knew that voice. He turned and saw a familiar pale, dirty face watching him with flat, black eyes, from behind a bookshelf.

“Hastur,” he snarled.

And of course, it made sense now. Demons couldn't create Summoning Circles on their own – if they could, there would be no end to the trouble they could make for each other – but it was technically possible for them to guide a mortal through the process. One vulnerable mortal, struggling with addiction or mental illness, or whatever that poor fellow's story was, made an easy target for demonic wiles. It was cheating, really, Crowley had always thought, preying on people like that.

“You know what to do next, Gerald,” said Hastur, baring his half-rotted teeth in a semblance of a smile.

The man, Gerald – the name was familiar, too, who was he? – looked at Crowley, or, rather, in Crowley's general direction. “Silence, demon,” he mumbled.

Oh, shit. Crowley opened his mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out, not even a _ngk_.

Hastur moved then, stalking around the circle towards Gerald. The man's eyes were slowly starting to focus. He blinked. Looked at Crowley, still crouched down in the middle of the Circle. Frowned. Blinked again.

“Anthony?” he said.

“That's quite enough of that,” said Hastur, and hit the man hard in the back of the head. Gerald crumpled to the floor. Crowley yelped, sort of. Opened his mouth, anyway. When Gerald had spoken his name, Crowley had finally recognized him. One of the local men, someone who'd lived in the area all his life only to find himself with nowhere to go as the neighbourhood changed and the rents went up. One of the people Aziraphale would visit with baked goods and a bit of cheer. One of the men who had been promised a raspberry scone just this morning, in fact. He was unconscious, but breathing. If he'd been dead, the Circle would have broken. If he'd been awake, he might have been persuaded to break it when he recognized Crowley. As it was, Crowley was trapped. Unable to leave the confines of the Circle, unable to speak, and without any trousers. And this had been shaping up to be such a _good_ day. He glared up at Hastur.

“Scowl all you like, traitor,” said Hastur. “You aren't going anywhere.”

Of course, it worked both ways. Crowley couldn't cross the Circle, but neither could Hastur. Nothing of Heaven or of Hell could break through the sigils so artfully drawn on the floor. Until a mortal human broke the Circle, or its caster died, there was an impenetrable wall between the two demons. Hastur couldn't actually _do_ anything to him.

Crowley thought about it for a moment. Presumably, Hastur had a reason for trapping him here. He'd find out eventually what that reason was. There was nothing he could do until then but wait. He schooled his features, carefully and deliberately forcing them into a relaxed, vaguely contemptuous expression, and sat back on his heels.

Hastur glowered at him. Crowley arched an eyebrow. He wouldn't try to speak, wouldn't pound on the invisible wall that confined him, wouldn't give Hastur the satisfaction of showing anger or fear. Hastur, for his part, leaned back against the desk, carelessly knocking a stack of books to the floor. Crowley tried not to flinch as a rather delicate first edition of _The House at Pooh Corner_ landed open and facedown, pages crumpling.

Crowley wasn't sure how long they spent just watching each other, not saying anything, each of them trying to intimidate the other with just a look. If his watch hadn't been left behind in the Bentley, he'd have made a show of checking it, maybe yawning as he did so. He was actually rather impressed that Hastur hadn't yet given in to the temptation to gloat.

The grandfather clock in the back struck ten. Crowley looked over at it, then back at Hastur, whose rotting smile widened.

“Figured it out, then, have you?” Hastur said.

Crowley cocked his head to one side, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

“What time does your _best friend Aziraphale_ usually get back from the barber's?” Hastur asked, grinning crookedly.

No.

Crowley narrowed his eyes, trying to keep the fear from showing on his face. Aziraphale always returned from his visit to the barber sometime between ten and ten fifteen. The second Friday of every month. Like clockwork.

How long had Hastur been watching them?

This was bad, this was very bad. Crowley did his best to keep his cool as he took stock of the situation. The Circle, he realized, had been carefully positioned so as not to be visible from the front door. He couldn't call out to warn Aziraphale when he returned, and neither could he count on the angel seeing him and realizing that he was walking into a trap. Gerald was still unconscious. Hastur was attempting to smirk.

Plan, plan, he needed a plan. He could still feel his connection to the powers from Below, which meant that he could still, theoretically, conjure up a miracle. But a Circle this well drawn would confine any miracle he performed. As casually as he could manage, he tapped the floor with the fingers of his right hand. Tap-tap-tap. Nothing. It wasn't just his voice that had been silenced; he couldn't make any sort of sound at all. So, a noisy miracle was out.

Hastur leered at him. “I think I'm going to enjoy getting my hands on that angel of yours,” he said. “He's a pretty thing, isn't he? Maybe I'll break those soft fingers of his. I could do it slowly, one by one. Maybe I'll take his pretty grey eyes next.” He leaned forward, face just inches from the edge of the Circle. “Or maybe I'll take his wings.”

For hundreds of years now, Crowley had prioritized one thing above all else: protecting Aziraphale. In all that time, he'd never failed to keep his angel safe – except once. Images of the bookshop in flames threatened to overwhelm him. He wasn't going to let this happen. He couldn't.

Slow, steady breaths. He didn't need to breathe, but it helped to calm him. He had to come up with something.

Hastur barked out a laugh. “Worried, Crowley?” He leaned closer. “Don't be. If what they say is true, I couldn't kill him even if I wanted to. Hellfire doesn't burn him.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, black object. A cigarette lighter. “Of course,” he said, flicking the lighter, “it would be interesting to see what ordinary fire might do. Bet it would _hurt._”

Crowley's eyes were glued to that tiny, yellow flame. No. No no no no no.

He was still staring at the flame when he heard it. The doorknob on the front door made a telltale _snick_ when you turned it. Aziraphale was back. Hastur moved toward the door.

Crowley's plan wasn't a great one, but it was all he had. As the door swung open, he flung his arms out and conjured the biggest, brightest flash of light he could create. It lit up the bookshop once, then again, and then again a third time.

“What on Earth–” he heard Aziraphale say, and then his voice cut off with an “ooooofff” and a thud. And then, “What do you think you– unhand me this instant!” The angel sounded more outraged than frightened, but then he gave a yelp of pain. Crowley's hands clenched into fists.

Hastur had Aziraphale in a clumsy-looking headlock when he dragged him into Crowley's field of view. The angel's hair was mussed, and there was a fresh coffee stain down the front of his coat. Aziraphale spotted the unconscious Gerald, and his eyes narrowed. “What did you– hey!” Hastur delivered a vicious kick to the backs of Aziraphale's knees, and the angel went down. Before he could recover, Hastur was on his back, pinning him to the floor. Aziraphale yelped again. “This is absolutely–” He broke off when he caught sight of Crowley, eyes widening. Crowley's heart did a backflip. Aziraphale had never been able to keep his emotions off his face, and the expression there now was pure terror. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but whatever it was, it was swallowed by another cry of pain as Hastur grabbed his arm and wrenched it back with a force that would have dislocated his shoulder had he been human.

“Hello, angel,” said Hastur.

Crowley hissed, or would have, if he could have made a sound. That was _his_ pet name for Aziraphale. No one else was allowed to use it. In Hastur's mouth, it sounded filthy.

Aziraphale twisted and struggled in Hastur's grip, but it was no use. The demon had leverage, and although Aziraphale had been a warrior once, that was a long time ago.

“What have you done to him?” Aziraphale demanded, then yelped again as Hastur made good on his promise to start breaking fingers. Crowley heard the bone crack.

“What, your dear friend Crowley?” _Crack._ No yelp this time. “I had your human friend here bind him in a Summoning Circle.” _Crack. _Hastur leaned down to speak directly into Aziraphale's ear, but his voice was pitched so that Crowley would hear it too. “Didn't want him to miss the show,” said Hastur. “Front row seat.” Then he bit down on Aziraphale's earlobe, hard enough to tear off a chunk of it. Aziraphale let out a muffled scream. Blood pooled on the floor beside his head. Crowley forgot all pretense of trying to play cool and started pounding on the invisible barrier that was keeping him from charging to the rescue. He opened his mouth, tried to call out, but couldn't make a sound.

“This isn't about me at all,” said Aziraphale, through gritted teeth. “Is it?”

Hastur didn't reply, just– _crack._

Crowley would have screamed if he could. Aziraphale did not.

“This is about _him_,” said Aziraphale, his voice gone very cold. “You hurt poor Gerald, and now you're trying to–” _crack– _“nngh. To torture me, and you_ knocked over my books_ and you_ made me spill coffee on my coat_, and all just so that you can hurt Crowley by making him watch you hurt me? Does anyone in Hell even know you're here?” He wasn't struggling anymore, and there was something in his eyes that–

Shit.

_Look away, Crowley_, Aziraphale mouthed. It was all the warning he gave.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut just in time. Even through his eyelids, the divine radiance that erupted from Aziraphale was searing, burning, blinding. Crowley threw his arms up to cover his face. It lasted only a few seconds, and then it faded. When Crowley finally risked opening his eyes, he saw Aziraphale, but this version of Aziraphale was one he had only seen a handful of times over the course of six thousand years. He stood tall, wings out, eyes glowing with an unearthly light. And not just the eyes in his face. There were eyes everywhere, all over him, every one of them glowing, every one of them _angry_. His left hand was still mangled, but his right clenched into a fist as he advanced on Hastur.

Hastur was a Duke of Hell. In theory, if he drew on his full power, he would easily be a match for a Principality, even one seized by Divine Wrath. Give him a moment, and maybe he'd remember that. Right now, though, the demon was evidently too shocked to do anything but cower.

Crowley felt a smile spreading across his face. Aziraphale was soft. Everyone knew that. What no one ever seemed to remember – sometimes not even Crowley himself – was that that wasn't all Aziraphale was.

The angel made a sweeping gesture with his good hand that sent Hastur flying, narrowly missing a shelf piled with old pulp magazines.

If Crowley could have made a sound, he'd have cheered.

But Aziraphale didn't press his advantage. Instead, he turned and knelt down beside the still-unconscious Gerald. He passed a hand over the old man's still form, calling down a healing miracle. Crowley wanted to shout at him. _You can heal him later! Don't turn your back on Hastur!_

He needn't have worried. Hastur managed to pick himself up, but as soon as he was on his feet, Aziraphale literally pulled the rug out from under him with a quick miracle, sending the demon tumbling back to the ground.

Gerald opened his eyes. He blinked. “Mr. Fell?”

“Feeling better, Gerald?” An angel in a state of Divine Wrath was a force of nature. Crowley couldn't imagine the degree of control it must take to manage to sound _kindly_ in that state.

Gerald reached out. “You have... eyes...” he said. He put his head in his hands. “I think I got some bad stuff,” he mumbled.

“You'll be fine,” said Aziraphale.

“There was a man,” said Gerald. “Told me...” he looked up at the angel, eyes filled with tears. “I think he did something bad to Anthony,” he said. “I'm sorry, I didn't–”

“Hush,” said Aziraphale. “I need you to do something for me, Gerald. I need you to banish the Circle.” He took Gerald's hand, helped him to his feet, and led him to the edge of the Circle where Crowley was bound. “Just ... wipe it away,” he said.

Gerald hesitated, looking from Aziraphale to Crowley and back again. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Not your fault,” said Aziraphale. “Quickly now.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Hastur was, again, in the process of scrambling to his feet.

Gerald knelt down, reached out a shaking hand, and smudged the sigils that made up the Circle.

And just like that, Crowley was free. He strode forward, grabbed the first solid-looking thing that came to hand – an empty wine bottle, as it happened – and struck Hastur full in the face with it, yelling wordlessly as he did so, just because he could.

Hastur staggered backwards. He looked from Crowley, who stood, eyes yellow from edge to edge, brandishing the wine bottle, to Aziraphale, a tower of glowing eyes and righteous rage. The angel had stopped holding back. When he spoke, his voice resonated with all the might of Heaven.

_“Get out of my shop,_” he said.

The Duke of Hell had lost his advantage, and he knew it. He stood there for a moment, as if mulling over his options, then spun on his heel and ran away as fast as he could go.

As the door slammed shut behind him, Aziraphale sighed. The extra eyes faded, as did the divine light. He pulled in his wings, and looked over at Crowley.

“Give me a moment, my dear,” he said. He turned to Gerald, who was still kneeling on the floor, looking up at them, eyes filled with terror and confusion. Very gently, the angel took the old man's hand and led him to the sofa. “You look as though you could use some sleep,” he said. “I think you'll find that there's nothing like a pleasant dream to make you forget a nightmare.” Gerald fell asleep almost immediately. “Poor fellow,” said Aziraphale. “I saved him a scone. I'll make sure to give it to him when he wakes up.” He glanced back toward the door. “Assuming it didn't get crushed in the commotion.” Gerald wouldn't remember any of this, Crowley knew. Aziraphale had seen to that.

“Angel,” said Crowley, his voice thick. “You–” He was cut off when he suddenly found himself caught up in Aziraphale's arms.

“Oh, my dear,” said Aziraphale, hugging him tightly. “Are you alright?”

“Ngk,” said Crowley. _“Me!?”_

Aziraphale pulled back enough to look into his eyes. “Are you?”

Crowley felt a lump at the back of his throat. “M'fine, angel.” He laid a hand against the side of Aziraphale's head, where his damaged ear had mostly stopped bleeding. Demons tended not to have much talent for healing miracles, but Crowley had spent some time working on that particular skill. It had come in handy more than once, over the centuries. When he pulled his hand away, the ear was as good as new, and the blood had vanished.

Aziraphale's voice was breathy. “Thank you,” he said.

“Let me see your hand,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale's left hand looked terrible, and he winced as Crowley ran his fingers over the breaks. One by one, bones straightened and knit. It took a full minute to complete the healing. Aziraphale could do this sort of miracle much faster, Crowley knew, but he couldn't heal himself. Healing miracles didn't work that way. He gave the angel's no-longer-injured hand a squeeze. “One more,” he said.

Aziraphale blinked at him. “One more what?” he asked.

Crowley smiled. Then he pressed his free hand to the front of Aziraphale's coat, where a double espresso with a bit of sugar had thoroughly soaked into the fabric. One last miracle, and the coat was as good as new.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Oh. Thank you.” He was trembling all over, but the smile he gave Crowley was like a sunbeam. “I think I need to sit down,” said the angel. Gerald was occupying the sofa, so Crowley took Aziraphale's arm and led him to his desk chair. “Thank you,” said Aziraphale. He leaned forward, pressing his hands to his knees. “Haven't had an episode of Divine Wrath in quite some time. Really takes it out of you.” He looked up at Crowley, who was standing over him and worrying. “I'm fine,” he said. “Really. But, Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?”

“Why aren't you wearing any clothes?”


End file.
